Morgan's Hero
by awilla the hun
Summary: The first of many featuring the ubitiquos Samuel Morgan. An American officer from the revolutionary war is transported into modern Paragon city. My first fanfic, so please review!
1. Morgan's Battle

Near Smithport (Modern day Paragon City) 1780

The sun rose over the valley. The river, previously just a dark streak in the night lit by only the stars above, now looked like a red gash across the Earth.

Red like blood. The blood which was now seeping in to it.

Captain Samuel Morgan of the 7th Virginia regiment (Morgan's Riflemen, as they were more often known) ducked as a grapeshot whizzed over his head, only to ricochet off the stone walls of the church behind him. "Takes more than a damned lobsterback to kill me!" he called to his company, before getting back to loading his pistol.

He and five hundred men- five companies- of the 7th, backed up by a battery of guns and a battalion of the 1st New York regiment, had been holding a vital river crossing- he could never remember over which river- for two weeks now. The British had been furiously trying to cross, first in dribs and drabs, then in battalions. Each attempt had been met with failure, for the bridge a very defensible position. The church on the hill above it on the American side contained a church, a church which was a rifle's shot from the river. On both flanks were woodlands, where marksmen could be positioned to fire while relatively hidden. And the work of several engineers had cleared a good field of fire for the guns.

But now a whole brigade had arrived to attack. Cornwallis wanted the bridge badly, and so had committed five thousand redcoats and two gun batteries to it. Even men of the calibre of Morgan's rifles were struggling to fend off the enemy as they slowly- agonisingly slowly- climbed the bloody slope, across the bridge, through the volley fire of the New Yorkers, the sniping of the 7th, and the grapeshot of the guns, to win victory with their long steel blades.

The noise was like the largest firework display Morgan had ever attended. Muskets coughed out sulphurous powder smoke, rifles cracked and the 24 pound guns boomed, the noise echoing out over the valley like a large thunder storm. "Present arms! Fire!" officers of the New Yorkers and redcoats bellowed, and the swords swung down, the muskets slammed in to shoulders and the volleys crashed out. "And reload!" The rank, faces blackened by the powder smoke, shoulders bruised by the recoils of the muskets, would tear open the cartridge papers with their teeth, mouths dry with the thirst brought on by the gunpowder, and spit the bullets and powder in to the musket barrels, before ramming them down with their ramrods. Then the order would be given, the muskets would fire, or perhaps the musket flints would break and the gun would be rendered useless, and the process would begin again. It was war, tiring, brutal and harsh. But it was necessary. It was necessary for a man to do this again and again, four times a minute, so as the British would be forced all the way across the Atlantic back to London.

It was war, all right, Morgan thought.

And the Americans were losing.

The battalion of New Yorkers had formed a line of two ranks a hundred yards in front of the church, and that line had been engulfed by a great fog of powder smoke. The British were slowed by the bayonets on their muskets, which made it more difficult to use their ramrods, but unlike the Americans, their line was being reinforced by more and more men as they advanced up the hill, and that line was slowly spreading out to surround the shrinking New York battalion. And the British guns were hammering the Northerners. Morgan watched as a small knot of men fired a last volley before a shell everscated them with shrapnel. Moments later, the dull thud of the gun echoed loudly, above the musket fire and bellowed orders. The American guns responded, flaying the tightly compressed British with grapeshot, reducing whole companies to bloody shreds, and the rifles cracked from the church and woods, but it was still not enough. The American banners were twitching as musket balls hit them. The bandsmen had long stopped playing, but were now trying to tend to the wounded.

There was nothing to do now, Morgan decided. Except fight.

He swung up his pistol, levelled it at the cloud of smoke which was all he could see of the redcoats and pulled the trigger. The weapon bucked, and he fancied that he had hit an Englishman, though he couldn't tell through the smoke. He probably hadn't, anyway; pistols, even fine weapons built at Rappahannock forge like his own, only had a range of about ten yards. He then unslung his rifle, built at the same place as his pistol, took aim and fired again. The butt bruised his shoulder as it slammed back. He then ducked down and began to load both his weapons. His rifle, unlike a musket, could hit a target at one hundred paces, even if it took a long time to load. He remembered doing just that at recruiting. Men and officers alike had to hit a target at one hundred paces with the head of King George painted on it in one try if they wanted to join. Morgan had, and was now a Captain. He remembered the bloody fields of Saratoga where he had earned it, remembered Bemis Heights in particular. He had shot the enemy colonel, and as a result the enemy had promptly fled. Colonel Morgan had met him afterwards and gave him the rank and a company of troops to order about.

"Well done men! We're holding them now!" He called out encouragingly to his battered command. Nine men had been killed, and Lieutenant Denny was bleeding to death on a church pew, lying where he had fell. He grabbed a man by the elbow and pointed to a mounted redcoat officer. "Sergeant McKenzie! I want that bastard dead!"

"Sir!" McKenzie took aim and fired. When the smoke cleared, the officer was still standing, nonchalantly checking his watch. Morgan frowned. He didn't know how high up the man was, but the gold braid on his coat indicated some sort of importance. "Again man, again!" he called, tossing McKenzie his newly loaded rifle. "You did better than that on King George!" McKenzie obediently took aim and fired again. The officer remained stubbornly on his horse. Morgan thought he could see a flicker in the air where a bullet may have hit, but he couldn't be sure. That man was enjoying a huge run of good luck, he thought angrily. Or perhaps something else was at play. No one could hope to survive for long standing on horseback, wearing enough gold on his chest to be at least a brigadier or Christmas whore, in a musket duel.

A musket duel which now abruptly ended as the officer waved his sword at the remnants of the New Yorkers and shouted, "Charge!" The redcoats gave a "Huzzah!" and obeyed. And the Americans fled. The sight of the roaring, blade wielding men, made at least a foot taller by their shakoes, was too much for the already shaken, thirsty, deafened men. So they ran, along with the gunners. Not wanting their pieces to be captured, they hastily limbered up and galloped away.

"Pull back to the church! The church, damn you!" Colonel Lockhart ordered loudly from his position in the bell tower, and some obeyed, but most just kept running. The Colonel then ducked back as a bullet smacked in to the bell next to him, making it toll loudly. He was a large, crude looking man, son of a forge worker, but nevertheless could direct a battle just as well as plantation owner's sons like Morgan, of whom he was no relation.

"FIRE!" the officers bellowed, indicating the charging redcoats. Those of the New Yorkers who hadn't completely routed took up positions wherever they could find them in the increasingly crowded buildings. A volley lashed out at the lobsterbacks. Morgan made a quick calculation, and came to perhaps six hundred men, as even more crowded to the windows to fire a near constant fusillade of shots.

The redcoats pulled back before the fire.

And a bugle sounded.

Colonel Lockhart, from his vantage point at the bell tower, looked out to see what looked like a regiment of dragoons in the forest on his left. A stars and stripes banner waved defiantly in the sudden gust of wind. The regiment's Colonel saw Lockhart watching and waved. The Rifle's colonel waved his hat in response. Washington hadn't forgotten about his stand after all. "Come on, you rogues!" he called down to his men. "Show these flea bitten whoresons what it means to be a soldier. Fire at will!"

Then hell broke loose.

Historical note:

The real commander of the Virginia 11th was one Colonel Daniel Morgan, and his recruiting method laid down in the above chapter did really happen. There was also a Rappahannock forge. The nicknames given to the redcoats were also genuine.

I own no trademarks, but I do own city of heroes and city of villains.

This is my first fanfic, so please review. Honestly it does get more "Superhero" later on.

Historical inaccuracies are my fault and mine alone.


	2. Morgan's Charge

Brigadier General Alexander Rupert Sewell, formerly of His Majesty's 47th regiment of foot, had always known himself to be a gifted man. His main gift was not dashing good looks, physical strength or even great mental aptitude; although in his own opinion he possessed all three. His career at Eton College had been far from stellar, but it had been most certainly somewhat eventful. This was because of his greatest gift.

He could talk to plants. Not only talk to them, but control them, even draw life force from them to sustain him. This ability had saved him from many an Indian bullet at Plassey and the Spanish at Manila. His uncle, an Anglican rector, had recognised this gift and had tried to beat it out of him. "No Godly man should have such power!" he had boomed before being "accidentally" impaled upon an Oak tree. Perhaps the old man was right. But it had been damned useful in any case. The ability had got him in to a society known as the Guides of fate, a group dedicated to aiding people with abilities similar to his own, apparently following a "grand plan." Whatever that plan was, the Guides of fate had helped Sewell rise through the ranks, and had given him a transfer to America and a Brigadier-General's rank in the army.

And now a regiment of American dragoons were in a forest, preparing to charge. Perfect. Sewell reached for the power.

One of his aides later commented that he thought the General was at prayer, such was his posture- stillness, closed eyes, hunched on his horse. That was until he saw what happened to the Dragoons in the forest.

Morgan cheered loudly as the dragoons prepared to charge. The bugle sounded, the sabres dropped to the lunge. The redcoats frantically formed square, the forward most ranks slamming their musket butts into the ground to make themselves impregnable to a cavalry charge. But they were now tightly packed, and the next volley of fire scythed through them. They began to shuffle away from the church. But then something made them stop. Come to think of it, just about everything had stopped, too. Even the cheering had died. Morgan stared at the forest.

For it had suddenly sprung to life. A huge, gnarled oak tree hauled a man off his horse and tore him in half before he even had time to scream. A pine seemed to fall over, crushing another half dozen under its weight. The horses screamed piteously. Some brave men hacked at the trees with their sabres or shot at them with carbines and pistols, but to no avail- the trees were too resilient to be taken down by anything short of cannon fire. The screams continued to echo loudly from the woods as they shattered the once proud regiment.

A few managed to escape on to the field where the main battle had been raging. Perhaps a company emerged, looking visibly ragged even from two hundred paces away. Most were bleeding, a few were horseless, but the colours still flew. If there was any consolation, Colonel Lockhart thought, it was that the attack had unsettled the British just as much as the Americans. Already, men could be seen running from the squares, and the monsters which were still shattering most of a whole regiment of horse.

But the battle could still be won.

The veteran colonel drew himself up, hoping that he had made the right decision. Then he roared, "Fix Bayonets! Prepare to charge!"

Below, Morgan stood for a moment, astonished at the order. The men around him also were, some wondering if the colonel had gone mad from the strain of battle. But the order came again, and this time from the ground floor. "Fix Bayonets! Fix them, damn you, or I'll fix you!" Colonel Thomas Lockhart drew his sabre. Morgan hastily did the same, at last understanding what was going on.

The British troops outside were still formed in square to tackle the cavalry which were circling around them in the field. They were probably as terrified as Morgan was, who had himself shuddered when confronted with supernatural forces. And the square formation reduced their firepower to a quarter of what it normally would be. If the British could be shaken enough, they would definitely run. And they would hopefully be pursued by the surviving cavalry.

Sewell wrenched himself out of his trance to see that his battle plan was slowly but surely collapsing. The woods had come alive, but some of the cavalry had escaped. His men's squares had been hammered by musketry. And now they would probably be swept aside by the charge which was now forming up just outside the church, a long musket's shot away from his redcoats. A volley crashed out and perhaps five blasted patriots fell. And then…

"Charge! Charge, you dogs, charge!" A colonel roared, brandishing his sword at the foe. And, like hounds unleashed, the White coated troops charged. They were roaring, savage looking men, made black by powder smoke. Sewell could hear a cavalry trumpet ordering another charge. The harsh music chilled his heart. "48th! Avenge your dead! Avenge Van Statten! Charge!" A voice called. Hooves thundered. And the redcoats began to shuffle back, fumbling with their muskets, trying to get away from the bloodthirsty Americans and the walking, killing trees.

They had held on beyond all expectations. They had unflinchingly walked through cannon and musket fire, they had almost captured the church, and would have after one last push. But the combined charge was too much for them. Any reasonable commander would have ordered a ceasefire and surrendered there and then.

But Sewell was not that commander. "No!" He roared, defiantly. "No! I am a man of power!" He cackled manically, felt the energy coursing through him as he prepared one last spell. "I will not be beaten by weaker, lesser men!" He drew a brace of pistols. "Hold the line, damn you!" He called to a fleeing officer, He shot the man through the heart when he kept running. "And you!" He blew a sergeant's head off with his next shot. The spell was now ready. He gave one last triumphant laugh as he prepared it, the energy drawn from every plant around him, every blade of grass, every tree. All was ready for a blast which would shatter the church, the fleeing men, the Americans, everything that had caused him pain.

Then a pistol banged.

Sewell's last sight was of a tall American officer, pistol in hand, standing over him, a hulking sergeant by his side. He went to his grave knowing that they would die.

Tentatively, Morgan lowered his gun. He went up to the dead officer, drew his sabre and stabbed down, just in case. Beside him, Sergeant McKenzie offered a prayer for his soul. He too stabbed down with his bayonet. But before either man could withdraw his blade, green arcs of… something crackled through the air. "What the hell-" Morgan exclaimed. McKenzie swore loudly, just before the man's corpse seemed to explode, with an incandescent, green glow.

And then everything went black. Captain Samuel Morgan and Sergeant Abraham McKenzie were then hurled away. From the past, through the present, and in to the future.

In to History.

Now, with Morgan's first encounter with the unnatural, the proper adventure can begin.

Please review! And I'm sorry about the length.


	3. Morgan's Pursuit

Now the action is going to start properly. Ok, I admit that the method by which our heroes managed to get to the 21st century is leakier than sieve used for rifle practice, but the star trek people keep using wormholes to bring in just about anyone (space marines, Jedi knights, the modern world…) so just stay with me here.

And in reality, the rifles used by The 7th Virginian would not have had bayonet lugs, but I wanted McKenzie to be able to kill something so… I'm sorry about that. To any members of historical re-enactment societies or universities reading this, please do not persecute me for lack of knowledge. This is just a story…

Anyway, happy reading! And review this, please.

Near Smithport

Blearily, head feeling like a shell had detonated inside it, Samuel Morgan opened his eyes. He looked up, saw the night sky and the church standing nearby and groaned loudly. Another groan sounded, and he turned to see McKenzie lying nearby, still gripping his bloodied rifle and bayonet. The burly man looked over to Morgan. "What the hell happened?" he asked blearily.

"Well," Morgan replied, "Despite being a good son of Virginia, where the sun shines forever and the sky is always blue; I have to say that I have absolutely no god damned idea." He clambered unsteadily to his feet. Samuel Morgan was a tall man, with a deep voice and shoulder length brown hair. A moustache crossed his face, which was somewhat broad and rugged, apart from a pair of surprisingly light blue eyes. Idly, he realised that he still gripped his sabre.

He looked around. They were on the hill with the church and bridge at the bottom. The trees had resumed a more natural state of inactivity, but-strangely- there were no bodies, no fallen weapons, none of the normal debris after a recent battle. They must have been out for a long time. He found his pack lying nearby and searched through it. His pocket watch was intact and the ornate hands showed that it was around eleven o'clock at night. He searched further and produced his telescope, which had been buried under a layer of books, mostly the company records of who had died, who owed who money for lost equipment, and crimes committed. The telescope was an old thing, but sturdy, and had been brought off a chandler who was an associate of his father's tobacco plantation, more specifically the exporting department. The lands around them were empty of the distinctive lights indicating watch fires and soldier's encampments. Several fast moving lights could be seen on what could only be a road, which was odd because Morgan could not remember there being one there before. He lowered the telescope.

"Sergeant," he said, trying to sound confident, "that church"-he pointed to the church on the crest of the hill- "will provide us shelter." And a hot meal, probably. Churchmen across the world provided aid to the needy, and few people were needier than a pair of soldiers apparently abandoned by their army. He helped the man up. Sergeant Abraham McKenzie was a tall, burly man, easily six feet, with bushy sideburns and a negative outlook on life. Morgan personally thought that this was probably aided by his firm Catholic beliefs, although he never said as much to the man's face. Morgan and McKenzie had been best friends from the beginning; Morgan the wealthy merchant's son, McKenzie the younger brother of an Irish immigrant escaping from the tyranny of the English. They had played together, fished together, snared animals together and now they fought together.

A chill wind cut the air like a knife as the two men strode towards the church. And

Morgan shivered.

The Circle of Thorns was gathering. Men from the gutter, from the very dregs of society, united for the greater cause, were flocking towards the crumbling old church on the hillside. Why they came, none of them really knew. A voice in their heads had just told them to, and they obeyed. None knew precisely who gave the orders, not even the thorn guardians, save perhaps Halespix. And the tall, hooded man was not telling. Such was the way of damned men, men and women who had been utterly cast out by an uncaring society, and now seeked revenge, power or maybe just a cause in life. They could, and would kill to protect it, something that none of them truly understood.

And tonight they were gathering. And they would kill to protect it.

The man who called himself Halespix knew that for sure. The heroes of Paragon would obviously come to investigate it. Some of the weak, idealistic fools would even be able to guess where the power was coming from, the strange lights, the chanting voices, the screams. And he had prepared.

Even now, the demons came, drawn by promises of blood and slaughter. The so called "Hordelings" were being summoned. Nineteen members of the circle had given their lives, gladly sacrificed themselves for the survival of the prophet and the circle. None had made a sound as they laid themselves on to the altar, where the knives were thrust down and the blood spilled.

Everything was ready.

So Halespix was less than pleased when a firm knocking sounded from the door. A man called to open up, and informed the congregation that they were "mere travellers wanting rest for the night," and that the "priest should accept on account of him being a man of god, and the travellers being honest sons of Virginia." Halespix cursed loudly. His followers quailed. He needed every man for the ritual that was to come. He pointed to a Thorn guardian. "Michelson! Select four followers and… eliminate the intruders. And do it quickly!" The tall, hooded figure nodded, eyes glowing beneath the cowl, before turning and beckoning to a group of acolytes. They drew their crossbows, Michelson his thorn blade, and the group departed, hastening towards the church door.

"Now then," Halespix hissed, "back to our little… ritual." He cackled madly, his followers joining in.

"Sir, I really think that you should stop knocking now," McKenzie said helpfully. "These people are taking a mighty long time about getting out, but I am quite sure that they've heard you now."

"Ah, the priest's probably still in bed, on account of being a damned southerner with all the grace of a warthog," Morgan replied confidently. "I just had to wake him up a little. But he'll come, I'm sure of it." He withdrew his hand again.

Above, eyes watched them, taking in every word they said. One of the men sharply looked up, saw nothing, and remarked that it was probably just a bird. The other man nodded.

"But bird or not," said Morgan after another minute or so, that gives no excuse for a man of the cloth to be so-"

Whatever a man of a cloth was so much would never be known, for at that point the door opened. Five tall figures stood, all clad in hooded cloaks. Four had crossbows, and another wielded a huge, red sword, and they all had the same, green eyes.

McKenzie crossed himself and unslung his rifle, bayonet still fixed. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded loudly. "Saint Patrick help me if you aren't the strangest bunch of priests I ever saw."

Morgan put his hand on the hilt of the pistol he had loaded as they had walked. Back then it had seemed like a useless precaution, but now…

The four men swung up their bows, whilst the fifth, evidently a leader, lunged with his sword.

Acting on instinct, and using reflexes that astonished even him, Morgan drew the pistol, cocked the gun and fired. The bullet drilled into a cloaked figure, hurling him back. At the same time, another shot rang out as McKenzie fired, hitting the leader. The bullet did little more than halt the lunge as the man twitched at the bullet impact. But Morgan had no time to contemplate this however, as the three crossbowmen shot their weapons at him. He dived aside- evidently they were poor shots- and drew his sabre. It was a brutally curved weapon, designed for slashing and cutting rather than stabbing, and was thus favoured by cavalry regiments.

He leapt to his feet. The crossbowmen drew knives or reversed their bows, and hurled themselves at him. The rifleman yelled and slashed with his sabre. McKenzie had fitted on his bayonet and now lunged at the leader. The taller man parried and stabbed with his sword. The sergeant blocked the blow with his rifle butt, kicked his opponent in the crutch and speared him on his bayonet. Good man, Morgan thought. The point always beats the edge.

The man got up again.

And now they were outnumbered two to one, against at least one man who refused to die. Only Morgan's rifle was still loaded. And their opponents more proficient than their shooting first suggested.

Morgan parried a knife swing, before sweeping the sabre in an arc, the lethal edge shattering his opponent's blade, before digging deep in to the flesh beyond. The man folded over on himself, screaming and trying to stop his guts from falling out. He had earned the respite they needed. He turned to McKenzie. "Being a good son of Virginia, I know when to give good advice. And now is one of those times. RUN!!!" He yelled, before sprinting towards the woods. McKenzie, after rifle butting a man in the face, followed. The hooded killers gave chase.

In the church, the man called Halespix frowned suddenly. That idiot Michelson had failed to kill the intruders, and they were now making their escape in to the woodlands to the west of the church, if his magical picture wasn't lying to him, and it rarely was. The bumbling fools could easily lose them in there, and then they could alert the authorities, heroes and gods knew who else. This would need something more than human.

His eyes fell upon a small group of hordelings. Unlike his inferior human minions, he could understand their tongue. They were impatient, eager for blood after their recent summoning.

"There is a pair of men outside," Haespix said in demontongue. He sent a mental image to the demons. "Kill them, and their blood is yours."

The demons bayed eagerly, and bounded out of the church like hounds loosed for the hunt. Halespix watched for a moment, before turning back to the ritual.

Morgan smiled grimly as he ran. They had the pace of the mysterious, robed men. Both McKenzie and he had been in forests since childhood, and the men were impeded by the monk like robes they wore. It was a race, he thought, panting. A race that the patriots were winning.

He looked over his shoulder to see the men were now totally obscured by the shadows of the forest at night. He turned to the Sergeant. "Stop running," he hissed. "And load."

The man obeyed.

Morgan loaded his pistol and kept his loaded rifle on the ground next to him. The sergeant loaded his gun.

Above, something watched, thinking.

The pair of men stood. All was quiet around them. The forest, it seemed was asleep. Their pursuers, it seemed, were either mighty quiet men, or had given up. Morgan lowered his rifle. "We stop here, sergeant," he said, "on account of being good sons of Virginia who need their rest. Just a brief rest, mark you, but a rest."

McKenzie nodded. He was used to his commander's odd manner of speech, even though it counted an Irishman as a son of Virginia. It was definitely distinctive.

The two men sat down again.

In the trees above, several pairs of eyes looked down on them.

Morgan was just settling down on a tree stump when he suddenly heard a rustle in the trees. He tensed suddenly, putting his hand on his rifle. He sat, motionless, waiting for the noise again.

Nothing. He began to relax.

Then the forest around him erupted with sound.

His nodding head jerked up. The two men swung up their weapons. And gasped.

It was like a scene from a Bosch painting, Morgan thought. It seemed that hell had awoken in this forest and was now choking them with its foulness. His mind flashed back to the poor souls of the dragoons, slaughtered in the same woodlands. He shuddered. McKenzie crossed himself.

For around them stood the hounds of hell. Eight slavering, vile demons. They had little in common, but all appeared to be a giant head on short legs, various limbs jutting out grotesquely.

The two men knew that they could not hope to fight these abominations. Outnumbered and surrounded by hell itself.

"We'll go down fighting, like true sons of Virginia," said Morgan grimly. He swung up his rifle.

"And of Ireland, sir."

"And of Ireland."

The things started to bound forward.

Oh I do love cliff hanger endings. I'm sorry if the depictions of Hordelings is not totally accurate, but I have not played CoV for a while now.

Neither was I aware of the etiquette regarding not begging for reviews. Now I am. Please forgive me.

By the way, Bosch specialised in painting insane images of hell. I try to insert history into these things, as you may have noticed. 


End file.
